


The Grief of Guilt

by aneclipsedhabitue



Category: A Passionate Woman (TV), Spies of Warsaw (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Teninch Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aneclipsedhabitue/pseuds/aneclipsedhabitue
Summary: A sad little snippet of the loss of the one who brought them together





	The Grief of Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Non major character death

_London, 1942_

  
Betty stood in the kitchen, hand trembling and breath shuddering as she prepared two cups. She swallowed a lump the size of the sugar she put in her cup of tea, the other left black, the way he likes it.

  
She had no idea where any of his kitchenware were and had to search around, she was unfamiliar with his apartment, and yet here she stood crying as she prepared his tea.

  
It had been a harrowing day.

  
News spread quickly, such a gruesome death as the one that occurred was bound to be known quite abruptly.   
Betty pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down further and brought the two cups to his office. She tapped the door lightly with her foot.

  
“Come in.” He said.

  
Betty entered his office, the faint smell of tobacco and scotch roamed the air, she cringed a bit but swallowed it down as she set his cup on his desk.

  
He stood with his back to her, staring out the window. Tall, and handsome. His lean figure was hidden by his thick wool jumper that Betty wished to curl against. She shoved that thought away, she barely knew him for heaven’s sake!

  
“I didn’t know how you take your tea, so I left it black. If you want me to fix it I—”

  
“Black is fine.”

  
Betty bit her lip, unsure of what to say. She looked around the room fidgeting, wishing she had the right words.

  
He turned to her, eyes rimmed red and brown curly hair disheveled. He blinked a his cup, and then hers next to it.

  
“Will you be joining me then?

  
Betty furrowed her brow, “I can leave if you want. I shouldn’t have just assumed.”

  
“No,” he shook his head and sat heavily in his chair. “Please join me.” He sighed.  
Betty sat, and reached for her cup. They sat in silence, it lingering in the air. Making the apartment feel even colder than it already was.

  
Betty set her cup down “Sir I—”

  
“Call me Jean-François, please.”

  
She looked him in the eye, meeting his solemn gaze. “I’m so sorry.”

 

  
Betty was his neighbor, she moved into the apartment complex after she got a job a seamstress for a nearby store. She had met Mercier while she was moving in.

  
He greeted her with a kiss on her hand, and ever since that day Betty could still feel his lips on her skin.

  
She was infatuated.

  
Yet from afar.

  
Due to his tedious enigmatic work, she rarely saw him. She knew little of his work. She knew it was at the Embassy, and it required frequent traveling, very late night returns, and was rather dangerous.

  
However each time they miraculously did see one another, he always greeted her the same:

  
“Good evening _mon étoile_ ” he’d say with a weary smile, and then he’d disappear to his flat. It always left Betty floating, she had no idea what an étoile was but it made her feel special. A feeling she was unfamiliar with.

  
Which each familiar greeting Betty soon gathered information about the enigmatic Jean-François Mercier. Another tenant in the complex, Mr. Fawcett told Betty all that he knew about Mercier. Widowed, French, and possibly dangerous.

  
Betty refused to believe that last one.

  
She later learned that even though he was rarely at the apartment, he had a maid. Betty never forgot the day she heard noises from his apartment when she knew he was away. She brought a frying pan and pressed her palm to the unlocked door. Neck drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, she was so on guard she very nearly bashed poor Wlada’s head in.

  
Wlada. His maid.

  
A short plump middle aged woman, with a warm smile despite her missing front tooth. Betty shrieked so loud when Wlada came out, she dropped the pan on her foot. Wlada patched her up.  
While she did so, Wlada explained that she had been his maid going on 15 years.

  
“He took me in after my husband beat and left me.” Wlada shuddered, her thick Polish accent almost incomprehensible. But Betty saw tears glisten the poor woman’s eyes and Betty rubbed her shoulder comfortingly.

  
Betty felt guilty for breaking and entering and causing such a distress for Wlada, she hemmed her maid’s uniform for no cost.

  
Betty and Wlada were becoming friends.

  
Were being the operative word.

  
She wasn’t in the apartment complex when it happened, nor was Jean-François. But after an exceptionally tedious day at work which consisted of angry, unsatisfied women and multiple needle punctures in Betty’s fingers—she wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. But when she returned, she saw everyone standing outside, police cars in the street and no sign of Wlada

Betty stood off to the side, a little further down from the apartments. She didn’t want to be near it, she didn’t want to see, she stood in the cold London air trembling. She heard running footsteps and looked up to see Jean-Franćois racing towards her, and that’s when she started to cry.

  
He halted to a stop in front of her. Uniform askew, hair shaken, panting harshly. “What’s happened? Betty, Ms. Stevenson what—” He was cut off by her flinging herself into his arms. Sobbing harshly. He stood, unknowing what to do except hold her close.

  
“Wlada was killed.” He heard her whisper.  
He tightened his grip, both to comfort her and in anger, disgust, fear and shame.

Sitting in his office, the policemen, reporters, other tenants all finally left—leaving Betty and Mercier alone with their sadness.

  
Both sipped their tea quietly, unsure of what to say until Mercier piped in.  
“Word of advice, don’t drink black tea after scotch. Rubbish taste.”

  
Betty looked up at him, slightly smiling. She set her cup down with trembling hands.

  
“I um…want to apologize for before.”  
He looked at her and furrowed his brows.  
“For erm, y’know…Crying on you and all.” Betty looked down at her skirt, afraid to meet his eye.

  
She heard him get up and make his way over.

Oh God, she thought, this is where he tells me to leave or he leaves himself. You foolish girl you—

  
His hand went under her chin and tilted upwards. His gaze was blank but his voice was soft. “Nonsense.” 

  
“B-but I—”

  
He shushed her gently and knelt in front of her, eye level with her.  
“ _Mon étoile_ , I think you needed a hug.” He chuckled once, “God knows I did.”   
Betty didn’t say anything, just nodded once.

  
“I’m riddled with guilt.” He sighed looking down.

  
“Wha? Why? It’s not your—”

  
“It was because of my job, Betty. They were after me but they got her instead.” He shook his head, his curls to her face. Betty bravely put her hand atop his head and ran a circuit. She heard him him but he still bowed his head. “She was killed by Germans who I was spying o—” His head snapped up. She pulled her hand back gasping.

  
“ _Merde_.” He whispered and stood up so quickly, Betty felt dizzy.

  
“You must forget you heard that.” He was by the window with his back to her again. Betty could see his shoulders shaking. “The drink must have loosened my tongue, I…Oh, please. For your safety, forget that I—”

  
He was cut off by the feeling of Betty’s arms around him yet again. Betty hid her face into his back, rubbing her cheek against the soft wool. Her hands rested gently on his chest and she felt his hands cover hers.

  
“S’alright. Consider it gone.”

  
Mercier sighed and relaxed against her. Betty tried her best to rock them side to side. He turned around her arms and when she tried to pull her hands back he stepped closer and wrapped her in a tight hug. He buried his face into her hair.

  
“Thank you _mon étoile_.”

  
She giggled, “What does that mean?”

  
He pulled back and tucked her hair behind her cheek. “My star. I only ever see you at night, and when you smile,” he started and grinned as she blushed and looked down, “Your eyes get this sparkle in them. Like the ones in the sky.”

  
She looked up at him, “Jean-François, I don’t think this is….the right time to…”

  
He nodded once and slightly loosened his grip. “I agree. I won’t take advantage of you during a time like this.”

  
“I was gonna say that about you.”

  
He smiled at her and she blushed.  
He stepped away from her, presumably to choke down his cold black tea when Betty said,

  
“I could…fill in for her while you find a new maid.”

  
He turned to her, “What?”

  
“It sounds awful of me to say, and please don’t think bad of me. Cos, while I know I’ll never be her I can….I can just clean for ya while you…” She trailed off and gestured aimlessly with her hands.

  
“I…that’s very kind.”

  
“It’s the least I can do.”

  
He grinned gently, “But how about I see you not as a temporary maid.”

  
Her head started to spin, “I thought we said to—”

  
“As a friend.” He declared, “I know you and Wlada were becoming close.”

  
“I….” She started to tremble.

  
“I noticed the extra tea cup she would be washing,” he said wistfully. He looked at her, “I think you and I both need friends. Why not together?”

  
She smiled, and blinked back tears. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that….Wlada would too.”

  
He nodded again and picked up his teacup, “To Wlada.” He saluted.

  
Betty picked up hers, mimicking his gesture, “To Wlada.” She whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Hehe, sorry.


End file.
